Asphyxiation
by usedusernames
Summary: Malcolm/Reese. Porn. Porn, porn, porn. Incest. Porn. Warning for asphyxiation. Plse, PLEAZE review my tarrable pr0nz!


His heat's thrumming fast, or maybe it's not his. Maybe it's Reese's, coming from the vein in the center of his palm, or along the inside of his thumb. From any part beneath Reese's thin-skinned but calloused hand, pressing rough, deep into his throat. Or maybe it's both their hearts, their excitement mirroring each other's. Once it got past the strangeness, when his blood felt pooled up between his eyes, his head started to feel fuzzy and faraway, but centered. Aware of everything, dizzy, floaty, but highly observant. He swallows and can hear the wet sound of his spit, feel his throat move up against Reese's hand.

So sensitive, so aware of Reese's breath, far less restricted than his own, hot and damp and there against his face.

So highly, highly aware of everywhere they're touching.

"If you die, I'm just going to leave you here for Mom to find you," Reese informs him.

"Tighter," Malcolm responds.

Reese actually looks concerned. God damn him and the death of the voice in his head that let him do stupid things.

Malcolm frowns at him.

Reese hesitantly tightens his grip and Malcolm feels his cheeks flush in response. His heart beats differently. Not faster, not really. But heavier. More excited. Knocking against his skin.

Reese is going soft inside him, Reese's face is still unsure, and that's pretty stupid; nothing's happening to Reese. Reese is fine and healthy and not in danger and-

The fact that maybe _he _is in danger excites Malcolm further. He jerks his hips up, tips his head back; his throat presses against Reese's hand, making it dig deep, pinch down. "It's okay," he assures. While the _okay_ still comes out strong, the beginning, the _it's _seems squashed out flat, tight and quiet, and talking again makes the pressure build across his temples, and he wants Reese to crush the voice out of him, to make him unable to say anything, to make black swarm in around the edges of his eyes.

Reese pumps in and out, slow, steady.

He grabs Reese's other hand; lays it flush against the first, against his throat, presses his own hands against them, pushing Reese's thumbs down hard, right above his collar bone and beneath his Adam's apple.

Reese works up an uncertain rhythm.

Malcolm can feel it, so much, so much, nerve endings firing, overloading. He can't breathe. Absolutely can't breathe, and it's wonderful, heavy-headed-light-headed-tingling-dizzy-topsy-turvy-wonderful, he can't see for it all. Keeps gasping in spite himself, wears his lungs out, and they burn hot. Just feels Reese pumping in and out of him, steady now, faster, harder, feels Reese's hands on his throat and his own blood so hot and desperate to get its air, feel his dick get harder, harder, heart beat faster, lungs burn more, legs get heavy, arms get heavy, hands get heavy, fall away from Reese's. Reese's thrusts seem more intense, setting him off; he comes. Feels it, abstractly, feels it but doesn't, against his stomach.

No air, needing air more than ever. Arcs and opens mouth wide to get it. Nothing, nothing. Wonderful, horrible-

He passes out.

Wet.

Cold.

He jerks awake, gasping. He looks up at Reese. Feels water from the showerhead pour into his open mouth, burning down his throat when he swallows. He closes his mouth and slides back in the tub until the faucet slams against between his shoulders.

The adrenaline's worn off completely now, and every single ache comes to life.

He presses a hand to his brow.

"I hit your head on the door, dragging you in here."

"You couldn't _carry_ me? Dickweed." He feels afraid in a way he didn't when Reese's hands were on his throat. The only thing he knows to do when he's scared shitless like this, especially when it's his own fault, is take it out on other people. So he bitches about Reese knocking his head for a good minute and a half. Just going to throw him around, give him a concussion on top of everything else? That's swell. That sort of thing. He doesn't look at Reese at all during his tirade, instead looks at the ugly pink of the bathtub. When he wears himself out with ranting, he looks up at his brother, expecting him to yell back. Instead his gaze focuses on Reese's shaking hands; then on Reese's white face. "Reese."

"We're never doing that again," Reese says sharply. On the surface, his voice is steady. Underneath that, it wavers.

Malcolm breathes deep. Realizes there's no need—his lungs don't ache for it- it's just because he can. He's still a little prideful, maybe more so than is justified in this kind of situation, and when he says, "Yeah, okay," he makes sure it's bitter.

Truthfully he's more relieved than he's ever been in his life.


End file.
